Page 23 of Hooked On The One That Got Away (Miss Lovelock’s Agency for Broken Hearts #3)

GRUMPY SUNSHINE, SWEETLY SPICY, TINY BIT MAGICAL WORKPLACE ROMANCE …

‘Stupid crappy padlock! Useless tiny key!’

Evie tried to pull the heart-shaped padlock off the bridge railing, but it wouldn’t budge.

Now, she was trying to scratch her ex’s name off, but the key was too small and flimsy to make a mark.

Ironic that this cheap piece of crap would last longer than her relationship.

Or maybe not. With the benefit of hindsight and rage, she could see that the signs had been there from the start.

Yes, the signs had been there, all pointing to the fact that Shithead was not a keeper.

And all ignored by her in the face of his tousled blond handsomeness and, to be fair, his unfailing good humour, and generosity in bed.

They’d been together just over a year, long enough and happily enough for Evie to assume the relationship would go longer.

But two weeks ago, Tuesday morning, after giving her several orgasms, Shaun announced he was leaving her.

He was out the door before she could form a clear thought.

Evie supposed it was like the old saying: easy come, easy go.

‘How can I make jokes when I’m heartbroken?!’ she demanded out loud of the universe.

‘Was it a good joke?’

If the universe had a voice, it would probably sound like this one.

Calm, and with a richness that made Evie think of a high-class chocolate cake with one of those fiendishly tricky mirror-gloss finishes.

Part of her didn’t want to turn and see who the voice really belonged to.

Right now, a little bit of magic would be very welcome.

The man she encountered seemed friendly. Face pleasantly ordinary apart from a striking pair of greeny-gold eyes. He was wearing what looked like council-worker overalls, and in his hand was some kind of tool with long handles.

‘Joke was passable,’ Evie said. ‘Not my best work, but I’m not in my best mood.’

The council worker’s gaze took in the tiny useless key that Evie was still clutching in one hand, and the piece of crap padlock that remained unscratched.

‘Would this help?’

He lifted up the long-handled tool, and Evie saw it was a bolt cutter. It was mid-morning Saturday, and the bridge was crowded with pedestrians, so Evie was fairly confident she was not about to be assaulted with a deadly weapon. But still–

‘Why are you carrying a bolt cutter around?’

‘It’s my job.’

The-hopefully-not-a-serial-killer leaned in and with one firm snip, severed the padlock from the railing. He offered the broken piece of crap to Evie.

‘I assume you don’t want it?’

‘You assume correctly.’

The now-confirmed council worker tossed the padlock into a plastic wheeled bin behind them that Evie had so far failed to notice. She stepped closer and peered in. It was half-full. Of padlocks.

‘This is your job?’ Evie asked. ‘Cutting padlocks off bridges?’

‘Do you know how much they weigh combined?’

Evie did not, but she had once correctly guessed the number of jellybeans in a jar at her local pub and won the lot. She didn’t even like jellybeans, but that wasn’t the point.

‘Ninety-three thousand pounds?’

‘Good guess.’ The council worker looked impressed. ‘Heavy enough to cause damage. A few years back, a bridge in Paris lost a whole railing. Collapsed into the Seine.’

Evie assessed the suspension bridge they were standing on.

When the first lot of people had walked on London’s Millennium Bridge, it began to sway alarmingly, so the officials hustled everyone off and added extra strengthening.

But obviously not enough to bear the weight of over forty tons of padlocks.

Below them was the Thames, a venerable, almost mythical river, but not one you’d want to plunge into unless you’d enjoy a week-long bout of gastroenteritis.

‘How do you choose which padlocks to remove?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to guess I wanted this one chucked in the bin, but it seems a bit unfair to couples who’re actually making a go of it.’

The council worker stared at her, as if puzzled by the question.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

Evie smiled politely. He was messing with her, had to be.

Even the most cursory glance showed that none of the padlocks looked special.

Whether they were heart-shaped, round or square, shiny and new or rusted and pitted, to Evie, every padlock gave off the same tacky vibe.

Of course, she hadn’t thought so when she and Shithead had fastened theirs.

Then, she’d seen the gesture as the height of romance, and a guarantee of her happy ever after.

‘If it was obvious, would my padlock now be in your bin?’

Evie sounded grumpy, she knew, but in the circumstances felt a small rant was justified.

‘I can’t believe I genuinely thought I’d found The One,’ she went on. ‘How could I have been so blind, and stupid, and deluded ?’

‘What were you looking for with Shaun?’

Evie was wide-eyed. ‘How did–?’

‘Your names are on the padlock,’ said the council worker with a smile.

‘Oh. Of course. Um – what was I looking for? He was kind, and super positive. Like, nothing would faze him. He never, ever got upset.’

‘Did he encounter anything to upset or faze him?’

Evie thought. And frowned. ‘Now that you mention it, no. Shaun knew how to avoid life’s rough spots. I envied him that.’

The council worker’s eyes seemed to flash bright green.

‘Kindness and a positive temperament are important, but those who are rarely troubled are often those who skate only on life’s surface.

And when life demands more of them, they skate away.

Part of you knew this from the start, but you ignored it. Why?’

In order to reply, Evie had to shut her mouth, which had fallen open.

‘Are you saying this is all my fault?’ she protested. ‘ I wasn’t the one who bailed on a year-long relationship with three minutes’ notice!’

‘Shaun knew what he wanted, and when he didn’t want it anymore, he left. With little regret, I imagine. Question is: what do you want, and why? When you know the answer to that, your life will regain its direction.’

I didn’t come here to be lectured by a council worker , was Evie’s first response. Quickly followed by: And what kind of council worker psychoanalyses you while bolt-cutting padlocks off a bridge?

‘Is this your only job?’ she asked. ‘You seem – overqualified.’

The council worker smiled again. ‘It gets me out and about.’

He offered her the hand not holding the bolt cutter. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Evie. I’ve no doubt you will soon find what you’re looking for.’

Evie shook the hand. It was rough with callouses. She guessed that long hours of bolt cutting would do that to you.

As the council worker moved away, Evie was tempted to follow and take note of which padlocks were singled out for the chop.

But she had a tiny shred of dignity left.

And besides, she’d promised to meet up with Nicky for lunch.

Nicky was the kind of tough-love friend who allowed a set time for venting about exes and then made you shut up.

She’d be intrigued by the bolt-cutting council worker, who seemed uncannily well informed about her relationship with Sh–

Wait. The padlock wasn’t engraved with their names. Only their initials. E.M. for Evie Martin. S.W. for Shaun Walsh …

Evie scanned the bridge both ways for the council worker, but no sign. It wasn’t a super-long bridge; he might be at the Tate Modern end having a sandwich. He might be up the other end having a moment of peace at St Paul’s.

Or I might have imagined him completely .

Evie remembered the rough feel of the handshake and decided she wasn’t hallucinating. Life was full of unexplained incidents and coincidences. She was sure there’d be a very sane and boringly normal reason why a complete stranger knew her name and her ex’s.

She texted Nicky: on my way

And added: order me a glass of wine – big one – HUGE!